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to the dinner table, loaded and fifteen minutes late. Opal frowned and introduced him to Ralph Jenkins, the practitioner, and his tiny wife. Rucker grunted and sat down next to the burly healer-through-divine-power.
    Rucker picked at his roast duck while the Lenskis and the Jenkinses carried on a spirited conversation about documented miracles experienced through faith. Rucker instantly disliked Jenkins’s naked skull, blunt ugly face, piggish eyes, and sanctimonious voice.
    “Well, Sergeant Rucker, what do you think about our discussion of God’s miracles?” Jenkins softly inquired.
    Rucker stared at him through slitted eyes for a long moment. “Mr. Jenkins, since I’m not on duty with the LAPD, call me Mr. Rucker…Miracles are great, but how many sick people have died that medical doctors might have saved, Mr. Jenkins?”
    The women were visibly shocked. Jenkins replied, “Oh, you poor man. Doctors! You mention earthly doctors? God is the quintessential doctor on whom we rely. We know—”
    Rucker cut him off. “Come on, now, Jenkins. I lost a Christian Scientist brother who wouldn’t seek medical attention. What about the sick people you lose?”
    Jenkins smiled, “Mr. Rucker, I can’t ‘lose’ anybody. I am just a humble conduit of God’s healing power. God, in his divine and perfect wisdom, saw fit to take your brother and others who believe in him to everlasting bliss. It’s impossible to be lost with faith in him.”
    Jenkins’s wife and Opal’s mother snickered. Opal just glared at Rucker, who was enraged at the trap he had set for himself.
    Rucker pushed his chair back and got to his feet. He exploded, “I think it’s criminal for you and your religion to let people die for lack of medical care.”
    Jenkins sprang to his feet and seized Rucker’s coat sleeve. “You retarded son of Satan! I demand an apology for that remark,” Jenkins commanded as he jerked the coat sleeve.
    Rucker spun and punched Jenkins hard on the jaw. He fell heavily and lay moaning on the carpet. Rucker turned and went up the stairway to his bedroom. Opal joined him several minutes later.
    “Ruck, are you insane? How dare you strike a guest in this house!” she said angrily.
    He looked up at her from the side of the bed. “I’m not insane or sorry.”
    Opal’s eyes softened. She sat down beside him and stroked his back. “You’re drinking again…”
    He jerked himself to his feet and paced the floor. He stopped in front of her and looked into her eyes. “Yeah, my drinking is as much a part of my life as your lousy religion is to yours. So what?”
    She got to her feet. “So I’m sorry about us, Ruck,” she said softly as she turned to leave.
    “Tell Rebecca I’m going to check into a hotel in the morning,” he said to her back. She nodded and went through the bathroom to her bedroom. He got a bottle from his bag and sat in a leather chair near a picture window. He stared out at the lights of Brooklyn’s streets and blotted out his pain and unhappiness with vodka.
    —
    Leo Crane, Rucker’s longtime friend and protégé, awakened in North Hollywood after a fitful night of Seconal sleep. He winced and closed his eyes against a spear of late-morning sunlight coming through an opening in heavy blue drapes. He heard the drone of a vacuum cleaner issuing from the living room. He bolted upright on the bed. What if Millie, his wife, got to the mail first and found a notice from the bank, warning that their house note was two months overdue? He looked at ten-thirty on his wristwatch. He sighed relief. The mailman wasn’t due for an hour or so.
    He let himself down on the pillows and lit a cigarette. Bleak wings of depression flapped inside his head. He glared at his nearly emaciated face, reflected in the dresser mirror like a death mask, starkly pale in the near-darkness of the room.
    Tension and misery fluttered his heartbeat. Suddenly a recurring panic seized him. He again jerked upright in the bed. His heart